


Maybe Just This Once, Let Me Keep This One

by Rinbin



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, JUST PICK UP THE PHONE, M/M, Mishima is a sweet boy that Ryuji takes advantage of, Mutual Pining, Post-Game, heartbroken boys, lotta feelings, oh boy this is a lotta angst, slight spoiler?, tbh I haven't finished the game myself so I'm just going off of one thing I know happens lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 22:33:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinbin/pseuds/Rinbin
Summary: Occurs after game's end but I'm assuming there's lots of canon divergence because ya girl has not actually finished the game lolRyuji can't stop feeling; Akira wishes he could feel something. Ryuji tries desperately to forget; Akira just wants someone to remember. Three months and no words make for broken boys.****Not updating currently and not really a real fic, just kind of a dumping place for all my angsty warm-ups****





	Maybe Just This Once, Let Me Keep This One

**Author's Note:**

> title came after the fic when I was listening to good ol' Fun. in the car and felt All Alright fit pretty well. My boys are sweet but entirely too stubborn.
> 
> As mentioned in the summary, I haven't actually finished the game lol I JUST officially met Haru so I apologize for any glaring inconsistencies. All I know is that SPOILER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Akira leaves??? wtf????????? And I couldn't resist writing about it bc I'm sure that once I finish the game I Will Not Accept It

Three months.

It had been three months and nothing. Not a word. Not a text. Not a call.

Ryuji runs his hands over his face, frustrated that he's keeping track of the passing of time, frustrated that he still cared, frustrated that he felt so goddamn empty because of it, frustrated at everything. He sighs deeply.

It wasn't fair, but then again of course it wasn't. When was anything? He curses himself for complaining about it like a child. He'd be naive to think things had changed, to think his life had taken a turn for the better. He should've known it would end the way it did. Everyone leaves him, in the end. How stupid to hope otherwise.

 _Foolish._ The word turns around in his head, over and over like a broken record. God, what a stupid thing for him to do: believing in something, in someone. Guess he was as stupid as everyone says he is.

The body next to Ryuji stirs. He looks over and sighs again.

As hard as he tried, nothing filled the void inside his heart. His mother didn't keep alcohol in the house, not after everything they went through with his dad, so he had used his last remaining Phantom money to pay some shady guy on the street to get him some beer. He was surprised when he didn't like it, assuming somehow he'd get a taste for it thanks to his father, but perhaps there were too many sour memories of what it could do to someone. He had given the rest of the pack to a homeless guy on the street.

He wasn't going to bother with drugs. They weren't hard to find, not in his school, but he wasn't that desperate. Besides, he thought it might just make everything feel worse. Too much of a gamble.

He had found a sliver of solace in sex. That's where he could he could forget, taken over by the feeling of pleasure, occasionally pain. He could fool himself into thinking it was intimacy, even though it never truly was, could even make himself believe it was someone else with him. He half does it in spite, like a metaphorical middle finger to everything he'd been through, to everything he'd gone through, just to end up here, desperate for another body to touch. He was always the one making the call, knowing he'd hear a "yes," feeling like shit because of it every time. Afterwards, when it was all over, the void threatened to suffocate him. It hurt so much worse afterwards, but it was worth it for the bit of time he could forget.

It's time to leave. Ryuji never stays the night, doubt he'll do something that vulnerable ever again. He rubs his face one more time, then slinks out of the bed to put his jeans back on. He tries to be silent, pulling his shirt over his head, but walking towards his bag he bangs his knee on the desk.

"Shit," he says with a loud whisper, grabbing the knee. Figures it'd be the bad leg.

The body in the bed stirs again, this time more so. Ryuji knows if he wants to leave without a conversation, he has to go now. He puts his shoes on without socks--it'd take too much time to figure out where he flung them--and walks carefully to the door.

"Hey."

Ryuji winces, hand on the doorknob, but turns. Mishima's head lifts up, hair askew, face droopy with sleep and sadness.

"You don't have to go," the smaller boy offers, but they both know he will.

"My mom, she'll worry." It's a boldfaced lie, Ryuji not even trying to be convincing. Ryuji's mother works the midnight shift these days for extra cash--she's rarely home. Mishima knows this but says nothing.

"Yeah, okay," Mishima nods, looking forlornly down at his pillow. Ryuji opens the door and starts to step out when Mishima stops him again.

"Ryuji," he begins, his voice even quieter. Ryuji freezes, sighs, and looks back in.

"I miss him too."

The empty space inside him widens to a cavern, to a damn canyon, and Ryuji feels like he's falling. Everything turns hot and acidic inside.

"Miss who? I don't miss no one," he snarls before stepping out and slamming the door behind him.

 

Once on the street, though, the hole inside him grows even more. Ryuji's thankful it's so late at night; the only people out now are drunk or homeless, no one paying attention to the high schooler walking with his head down. Ryuji grits his teeth, willing himself to not give into the void, trying with every ounce of self-control he has to stop the heat behind his eyes, but the hot tears begin to fall anyway. 

"Damn you," Ryuji whispers, angrily wiping the tears away, "No, better yet, _fuck_ you." He doesn't cry, had learned long ago how to keep tears bottled up and pushed away, but he's lost that control over the past weeks. He feels _so much_ these days. Granted, he always did, but the emotions of before were easier to express: frustration, joy, sincerity, anger. This...sad excuse of a person wasn't who he was, this wasn't someone he recognized. Ryuji hates admitting it, but he misses how it used to be. Those days weren't easy, no, but at least emotions didn't hurt him then like they do now.

God, this makes it what, third time crying in two days? Pathetic. It's been three months. It shouldn't hurt anymore. It certainly shouldn't make him cry. But once he starts, he can't stop, so he steps into a dark alley and slumps against the wall, cheeks wet and hot. The tears fall silently, running along his jaw before pooling down at his neck and soaking the collar of his shirt. It doesn't matter, he tries to tell himself. It shouldn't matter anymore. What was his problem? Why couldn't he just move on?

Deep down he knows why, but he won't say it, can't admit it to himself. He worries that will make everything hurt more, and if the pain got even slightly worse, he thinks it just might kill him.

He chokes back a sob and forces himself to stand on his own, forces himself to stop the tears that run down hot and heavy. He wipes his nose with his sleeve, then his whole face, and steps back into the neon lights of downtown.

The solitude made everything harder. At one point that was his normal, but he grew accustomed to so many people and ideas and conversations and laughter and _family_. It had stung, the way everyone dissipated and faded back into their own lives. He thought what they had together was endless, that what they'd been through would bind them for their whole lives. He called everyone, eagerly at first, to get food, or to go shopping, or to see a movie. He was trying desperately to fill the small gap in his heart that felt like it was growing. And everyone did, at first, but they soon found they had little to talk about without the Phantom Thieves. Gradually they stopped answering his calls, his texts, the void inside him growing larger still. He wanted to talk about it, wanted to talk about how empty he felt now, wanted to see if anyone else was feeling it too, but turns out they were just as gone. Ann was the only one still left and, for that, he was grateful.

He steps into the station, the sound of the city fading behind him as he moves towards the train. It's quieter in here--not good. Ryuji's thoughts were so damn loud sometimes.

He pulls out his phone to distract himself and opens up his texts. He sees the group chat, the personal one too, and grits his teeth. He can't delete them, not yet, but he can't look at them either. He quickly taps Mishima's name.

 **[Ryuji** ] same time tomorrow?

 

Mishima types for what feels like hours. Ryuji's sure he's writing something, then backspacing, then writing again. He half smiles to himself.

 

 **[Mishima]** Not until you talk to me

 

Ryuji's smile falls fast.

 

 **[Ryuji]** you know talkin is not our thing 

 **[Mishima]** We can't keep doing this if you're not going to talk to me about it

 **[Ryuji]** talk about what

 **[Mishima]** believe or not sakamoto i know you've got a brain in there. Stop playing dumb.

 

Ryuji snorts and puts his phone away. He needs Mishima; Mishima is fully aware of that. He’s not cruel enough to deprive him. They had started this...thing two weeks after it happened. Ryuji was going insane with everything building inside him, so full and pressurized he thought he might actually explode. Mishima had pulled him aside, thanked Ryuji for looking out for him the year before, and asked if there was anything he could do to return the favor, given the situation. Ryuji hadn't thought; he just grabbed Mishima and kissed him, pulling him into a nearby empty classroom. They’d made out messily, Mishima shy but responsive to Ryuji’s aggressive nature, Ryuji desperate for anything that could make him feel better.

Now they were here, Mishima holding sex over Ryuji’s head like a bargaining chip for...for what? _Talking?_ About...about how he _felt_?

Ryuji boards the train, grabbing a seat in the empty car. His phone buzzes impatiently in his pocket. He rolls his eyes but fishes it out of his pocket anyway, watching the texts roll in.

 

 **[Mishima]** Sakamoto, please.

 **[Mishima]** Ryuji

 **[Mishima]** Come on.

 **[Mishima]** You weren’t the only one that loved him you know

 

The words flash hot and bright before Ryuji. His vision blurs again and--fuck, no, he’s not crying again. He swallows the lump in his throat and stuffs his phone back into his pocket, stubborn and angry and feeling the pain of emptiness surge. Was there no escape? His mom told him once that time healed everything. Ryuji wondered if the time it took was proportionate to the wound and, if so, he was quite certain he wouldn’t heal at all.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Akira stares at the wall of posters before him, silent, mind somewhere far away. He recognizes them, of course, he put them there just before That Night, but it feels like they belong to someone else. Like the person he was then is a stranger he’s never known.

He’d been doing this a lot, lately. Blankly staring at all his old possessions, at the aspects of his old life he had missed for merely a day and then forgotten about entirely. His mom asked if he was excited to be home.

 

The answer was no, not even close.

 

Three months had passed and still nothing felt familiar. His parents tiptoed around him, vaguely aware he was “different” somehow and likely feeling sheepish for the way they’d handled his conviction. Akira didn’t bother trying to talk to them; he had nothing more to say. His parents hadn’t stood by him in the trial, hadn’t comforted him through the conviction, had been all too happy to have their criminal son sent away lest he taint the carefully constructed image of A Good Family they’d tried to hard to create. Now back home, name cleared, they doted on him like he never left. He found it hard to stomach. 

Old friends had bled back into his life too, ones who hadn’t bothered to even check in on him while he was gone. They had all sworn they would and yet...not one text. Course, the same could be said for his other friends. Their absence was ten times louder, like a constant gong in his head, the reminder that something, something he didn’t know, hadn’t been enough to warrant a call.

He falls back onto his bed with a sigh. It would be equally easy to contact them instead of waiting for them to reach out to him, but what was the point? They were all still together, after all. What did they need him for? With no battles to win, no strategies to figure out, there was no need for a leader. Akira was positive they were hanging out right then, probably at Lablanc, laughing over coffee. Well, most of them would be drinking coffee. Ryuji wou-

_Ryuji._

The pang in his chest stings, equal parts familiar and shocking. It happens every time Akira considers his blond companion. Of anyone, that one hurts the most. He had waited expectantly by the phone, and when that didn’t come, wondered if Ryuji would just show up on his door, filling in all the empty spaces with his light, asking eagerly to be shown where Akia grew up. And Akira would’ve shown him, too, would’ve loved to have taken Ryuji to every place he ever spent time.

He wants to hate him. It’d be better if he could. Hate was easy: it burned everything in its path, no leftover reminders of how things used to be. But Akira can’t. He knows he’d never hate Ryuji, no matter what he did, no matter what he doesn’t do now. His stomach churns sickly in his stomach: why _hadn’t_ Ryuji called? Ryuji rarely held back, usually the first to speak his mind. Even if Ryuji was angry with Akira, wouldn’t he have said something? The only possibility Akira can come with is that Ryuji had something _better_ now ( _someone_ , his brain thinks wickedly) and whenever the thought crosses Akira’s mind, his whole body aches with pain.

Sometimes he wishes he could cry. It’d be nice to feel something again. So much of him was dead now, like he was a ghost returning to the house he’d haunt forever. At school he is quiet, subdued, studious. At home he curt, stubborn, and reclusive. He gave the best of himself to the Phantom Thieves; with that over, this was all that’s left.

It’s so quiet here in the country. Akira finds the silence deafening. He longs for the sound of cars, trains, people talking outside his window, dogs barking in the night, sirens somewhere far off. Hell, he’d settle for Morgana telling him to go to bed a hundred times. Anything to make all this emptiness go away. At this moment he knew his parents were talking downstairs, just one floor away, and yet he could hear nothing. His chest feels tight with all this solitude.

Akira had considered throwing himself back into his old life: going out with the old friends, doing things you know are stupid but are the only things to do in the small town, finding a girlfriend, finding a boyfriend, studying hard for exams on material he hadn’t even been present for...but in the end he had decided that doing nothing felt better. Those distractions would only serve as reminders of what he used to have: family born of companionship, reckless abandon in the name of justice, a full heart in his chest, a promising future in the city. He’s not sure he could handle second rate versions of all his favorite things.

He takes a deep breath and turns on his side, his thoughts the only thing to hear in all this wide, empty space. Sojiro had called him last week to see if he’d come visit--the older man sounded sad, almost like he missed Akira, but when Akira smiled and asked, the man sputtered and said he just needed someone to wash the dishes. Hearing that Sojiro missed him made the gaping absence of his friends feel better and yet worse at the same time. If Sojiro could pick up the phone, where the hell were all friends? Heck, why didn’t Futaba grab the phone just to say a meager hi? Hadn't he made it clear how much he cared for them? Hadn't they promised each other nothing would change?

His mind grows sick with the memories: the girls teasing across the table in Leblanc, Morgana chasing a laser pointer Futaba had bought, Yusuke's face of concentration as he worked on the blank cards, Haru's sweet giggle, Makoto knocking down three Shadows with a bored but pleased look on her face, Ann's eyes when she saw chocolate, and Ryuji--

The pain again, the nauseating flip of his stomach as  _those_ memories come pouring in too: laughter, light touches, flushed cheeks, a surprise kiss on a warm afternoon, harder touches, grasps, gasps, afterglows, mornings...Akira thinks he might actually puke. Did it all mean nothing? Was it always supposed to be so temporary? He wishes someone would've told him so he didn't use up everything he had. God, what he wouldn't give to just let himself  _cry_ or  _scream_ or  _something._

Akira reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a couple sleeping pills. Before he left he asked Takemi for some medications just to see if she’d give them; he had no idea he’d be taking them nearly every night, desperate for some escape from all of this not-feeling. Sleep made sense to him: unconsciousness welcomed, his only task to just be still and slip away. No thoughts, no aches for how things used to be, just blissful nothing. The pills start to take effect immediately, his last thought before falling into the darkness is of a boy with blond hair, head thrown back in laughter like he used to….

 

* * *

* * *

 

Ryuji doesn’t realize he’s at Ann’s house until he pulls out his keys and turns, pausing before a door that is definitely not his. He’d been in a daze on the train, head murky and aching from the mess inside his brain, and must’ve been on autopilot. He hesitates, ready to turn around and go home, not ready to talk to anyone or feel anything more than he already is, but he knows that going home would be worse. Everything in his room still holds that scent: all his clothes smell of coffee and spices, his pillowcase a sweet mixture of curry and sugar. He tried everything: spraying air freshener, multiple cycles of laundry, even girly candles he took from his mom’s room. Nothing worked. The smell wouldn’t go away. 

With a sigh he knocks on the door, gently, wondering if Ann’s parents are home, hoping they’re still away. He hears footsteps, too light to be her dad, and then Ann’s voice comes from the other side.

“I told you, you pervert, I’m not-” she flings open the door, face angry and fierce, a look she wears so well now. Her face quickly softens when she sees Ryuji, and he can’t help the way his face twists with emotion, so happy to see his only remaining friend. She always feels a bit like home to him, a thread from his past that made it to his present.

“Oh, Ryuji,” she says softly, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him inside, “C’mere.”

Once the door shuts behind him, Ryuji takes a shaky breath, steeling himself against the tears that threaten to fall. This was not his night. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. It was supposed to have been Mishima, some late night ramen, then home, but Mishima had to ruin it by bringing up Ak--him. Ryuji could feel himself crumbling.

Ann rubs his back as she guides him into the main room, speaking softly about how her parents are still gone and, yes, he should stay the night, of course he can, he always can, no need to spend it alone in his empty house, and she was dying for some company anyway.

Ryuji is glad that she is gentle and patient. He sits on the sofa in a daze while she brings him the cup of tea she had made for herself. He lifts his hand to refuse, but she insists, placing the saucer down in front of him. When she sits down, Ryuji immediately collapses, head falling into her lap, body curling into itself. She sighs and softly runs her fingers through his hair while he chokes back each sob.

“Ryuji,” she whispers, “You can’t go on like this.”

He knows this is unsustainable, but what other choice does he have? Getting over it was clearly not an option.

She hesitates before suggesting: “Maybe just call him, find some closure. He could be missing you too, you know.”

Ryuji snorts, “Yeah? ‘Just call him’, eh?”

She sighs, “I know it’s not that simple, Ryuji, trust me. We’ve been having this conversation for months now. I just mean that...you don’t know until you know.”

“Here’s what I know,” Ryuji starts, tone biting, “I know that he just _left._ That after everything we’d been through as a team, after everything we’d been through as _me and him,_ he just went away. ‘N here I was, dumb an’ stupid for thinkin’ it didn’t matter cause he loved us, cause he l-loved--” Ryuji’s throat tightens so much he can’t continue, eyes squeezing shut to stop what he knew was coming. He takes a few deep breaths. Ann waits patiently, watching him carefully, fingers still raking through his soft blond hair.

“He doesn’t call, Ann,” he says finally, “He doesn’t bother to say a word. S’like it was all for nothin’.”

“And you?” she counters, “How many words have you said?”

Ryuji’s face flushes, half in irritation and half in embarrassment that she has a point. “It’s different,” he mumbles, “I’m not the one who left.”

“Your stubbornness will be the death of you.”

Ryuji wonders if she might be right, but it doesn’t _feel_ like stubbornness. He doesn’t feel childish, like he’s throwing a tantrum about who has to text first, it’s not about that. It’s not about refusal to bend, an unwillingness to be the one to step up and take that first step. No, he’s _done_ that already. Who agreed to stick by his side, following him into danger with nothing but a plastic pistol he didn’t even get to keep hold of? Who was the first one to start saying how he felt? Which of the two spent night after night feeling confused, disoriented, baffled by the way his heart was leading him, none of it making sense or lining up with his own past interests? Who stepped into new territory--terrifying territory--just to take a chance on the realest thing he’d ever known?

Ryuji’s taken plenty of risks, gambled more than his fair share. He’s not stubborn. He’s just tired.

Ryuji tries to change the subject. “Speakin’ of talking, have you heard from anyone?”

Ann shakes her head slightly, “Not really. I saw Futaba when I went to Lablanc last week; I guess she’s joined an online gaming community now? Boss says it’s the perfect blend of social activity and alone time for her, getting to interact with others from the comfort of her room. Futaba was happy to see me, though, nearly tackled me in a hug. It’s just...you know, different now.”

Ryuji gives a single nod. It’s more than different now; it’s unrecognizable.

They sit like that, Ann’s fingers in Ryuji’s hair (like his mom used to, he realizes, and the thought makes everything stop hurting for just a moment), Ryuji calming himself down. It’d been a long week of composure, holding himself together every day in school, every afternoon with him mom, avoiding conversations with Mishima...he was exhausted from it all. As frustrated as he is about crying _again_ and feeling that storm inside him _again,_ he appreciates Ann and the way she doesn’t mind him showing up to her house so late at night, the way she pretends it didn’t happen the next day at school.

“Did you see Mishima tonight?” Ann asks, tentatively, like she’s placing an offer on the table she knows is risky.

“Yes,” he says, and he knows what’s coming, but part of him thinks he deserves it, so he doesn’t say anything else.

“What you’re doing to him is not good, Ryuji,” her tone soft but scolding, “It’s not fair to him _or_ you, but especially not to him. He’s not like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re tougher, more resilient,” Ryuji laughs once in response, knowing that he’s not, he can’t possibly be tough and resilient if this is how he is now, if this is _who_ he is now, crying on his best friend’s lap about a dumb boy.

Ann continues: “He’s softer, fragile. Don’t forget what he’s been through. It’s not fair to use him like this.”

“‘M not.”

“Ryuji, come on.”

Ryuji huffs and sits up, moving away from Ann on the sofa. She looks at him expectantly but kindly too.

“Ann,” he starts, and there’s the familiar bubbling feeling in his stomach, the way he outbursts always start, like something has been on heat but is just now starting to boil, “You don’t get it, okay? You dunno what this-this _emptiness_ is like! I feel like something took a giant ass bite outta me and there’s no getting it back!”

Ryuji jumps onto his feet, the words pouring out of him, unable to stop himself: “I am _empty_ now, Ann, so goddamn empty,” he says, volume rising, feet pacing back and forth, hands waving wildly with expression, “Everything good about me he took with ‘im! He f-fuckin’ packed up in his fuckin’ little suitcase all the best things I ever did or ever was and jetted outta here like it was fuckin’ weekend at grandma’s or some shit, leavin’ all of us like it didn’t matter, leavin’ _me_ like I didn’t spend 4 months going _outta my mind_ because I felt attracted to my best friend, like he didn’t just kiss me one afternoon and everythin’ I was feelin’ just made sense then, like we didn’t fuckin’ explore all of _that_ together, like he wasn’t the first person I ever let in and see all my good parts and bad parts and ugly parts and dark corners, like-like...agh!” Ryuji shouts in frustration, turning suddenly to land a fist on the top of Ann’s sofa. The padding absorbs the noise, but the movement makes her jump. He sees it from the corner of his eyes but everything had started again, everything was rolling forward with so much momentum he can’t stop the sob that tears out of his throat angrily.

“I loved him, Ann,” he says, and there the goddamn tears are again, burning tracks into his cheeks. “I-I love him,” he corrects. For once, Ann doesn’t run to him, just lets him stand and cry. She knows this is something he has to do. His shoulders shake violently, head bowed in sadness and shame. After a couple minutes, he looks up at her, his tear supply dry.

“S-sorry,” he takes his fist back, fluffing up the couch cushion, “I didn’t mean that.”

Ann smiles gently, “No, you did. But that’s okay.”

Ryuji wipes his face again, always a bit more clear-headed after an explosion, and sits heavily next to Ann again.

“I just...I just don’t know, Ann. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself now ‘sides trying to drown in whatever I can find. Right now, Mishima’s the closest I can get to forgettin’, and I know I’m the closest he can get to feelin’ needed. Sure, maybe it’s not all that healthy, but we both know what we’re there for. We have rules.”

Actually, just one: they don’t talk about him.

Mishima broke that rule tonight, and Ryuji’s not sure where they’ll go from here. He’s not about to sit and discuss with him all his thoughts and feelings about what happened and have Mishima do the same. No, that’s too much--Ryuji does enough remembering on his own, sleeping in a bed that reeks of a better life. He needs Mishima to help him forget.

Ann pulls Ryuji into her again, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight.

“We’ll find other ways to fix you, Ryuji,” she whispers, and the tenderness in her voice makes Ryuji want to cry all over again, only now he feels touched, not tormented.

“For now, let’s go to bed.”

After getting him set up on the couch in her room, the emotions from the past few hours catch up with Ryuji and he falls asleep quickly. When he dreams, he dreams of a boy with messy hair, limbs tangled together in the early mornings of summer…

**Author's Note:**

> EVERYTHING I WRITE AS A WARM UP ENDS UP BEING ITS OWN THING BECAUSE I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL. I intend to finish this quickly, in a couple chapters, but I needed a side hoe to my main chapter fic or I was gonna go insane with trying to force myself to write for only that.
> 
> goodestboyryuji on tumblr if you ever want to interact!!


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